Curiosities
by CypressArtemis
Summary: Lucien was an assassin from Cyrodiil, his Listener, the fabled Dovahkiin from Skyrim. Surely they must overcome a majority of contrariety to work well together.
1. Weather

**Title**: Curiosities

**By**: CypressArtemis

**Summary**: Lucien was an assassin from Cyrodiil, his Listener, the fabled Dovahkiin from Skyrim. Surely they must overcome a majority of contrariety to work well together.

* * *

**Weather**

Lucien sighed as he lounged back into the hard wooden back of the chair. The crackling fire pleasantly warming the surrounding room and his spectral form as he stared out the window. A blizzard was raging, drifting in from the mountains and covering all of Winterhold in a blinding white sheet.

He could hear the people below in the main room of the inn warming themselves around the cooking pit and discussing politics with heated voices. Trivial matters really. He didn't have to lean over the banister like a gawky housewife to know too many men crowded together with mead and opinions was just asking for trouble.

Still he could envision the sight now. A cluster of men, a few with pretty little wives hanging off their arms, cloistered around the fire and spit shivering themselves dry as they debating chancing the blizzard again to paying the room fee.

He rose slowly and advanced towards the door, gently sliding it shut with the utmost care. The lock clinked as it shut and the noise from the lower floor was gone. A good thing about thick oak doors was it blocked out virtually everything. The Nords really did know there way around a construction site and a forge.

Black eyes wandered the dimly lit room in search of some means to occupy the hours of waiting. His current caster and listener was curled beneath a snow sabre cat pelt, her expression seldom peaceful during the night was strangely at ease. Her dark hair draped over the alabaster fur and blending nicely with the equally ebony specks along the pelt. The firelight cast upon her face, illuminating her form just slightly. Enough to see but not quite to interfere with her rest.

There was an oddly familiar twinge that went through him as he stared for a long while, watching the steady rise and fall of the soft furs with slightly envious eyes. He had never been one to sleep for great periods but he missed doing so none the less.

More than that though was the way, despite the storm of ice and snow outside bringing the temperature inside drastically low, she barely gave a shiver. In fact she seemed to thrive in it. On occasion kicking her blankets off completely and stretching out like a satisfied cat.

What he wouldn't give to be so resilient to the extremes of the cold. Or what he would have given anyway. It would be entirely irrelevant at this point, but it is certainly a handy gene to be blessed with.

Lucien could remember the warm days in Cyrodiil and the hot summer nights. The lapping of water against the various sandy beaches. Rarely ever did he have to endure the cold unless he was traveling to Bruma for a contract, or the time he spent traveling through Skyrim.

Before he knew of such harsh climates he had occasionally wished, on those nights when the temperature was much too hot and his body much too sweaty, that Cyrodiil would grow colder. Safe to say after his trip through the coldest regions of the North he was thankful Sithis did not plague all of Cyrodiil with his request.

Glancing back out the window he watched the edges of the glass frost over in a circular pattern, slowly creeping into the center. It was coated in snowflakes and mist that during his mortal years would have initiated him to swipe his hand over the pane to clear it.

Through the fog however he could still make out the blur of white and scarlet berries that overwhelmed the lot of small bushes.

A grin touched his lips as his thoughts wavered from the pleasant warmth of the sun and beaches to the unmistakable memory of warm blood glistening in the snow of the Pale.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hello everyone. For those of you who aren't familiar with my work this is basically just more continuation of my Dovahkiin Rosalind and of course Lucien of the Dark Brotherhood. Those of you that do know of my other stories I promise I am working on them. I feel bad it is taking me so long but school is getting progressively more complicated and unfortunately that does come first. Anyway as I usually warn people drabbles are not my forte, but I tried. Hope you liked this one.


	2. The Alchemist & Enchantress

**Title**: Curiosities

**By**: CypressArtemis

**Summary**: Lucien was an assassin from Cyrodiil, his Listener, the fabled Dovahkiin from Skyrim. Surely they must overcome a majority of contrariety to work well together.

* * *

**The Alchemist & Enchantress**

Lucien had patience.

He was methodical, calculating, and above all detail oriented. He mixed potions, ground ingredients with all the precision one may find in a master archer, and he delighted in watching the burners melt his concoctions into deathly green poisons or bronzed medical potions.

He was perfect for alchemy in every sense, a natural inborn skill it seemed to be rather than something gained through tedious practice. It was his knack. Each new potion manifested with ease, each recipe followed perfectly, no mistakes in his technique, and artfully deployed in the subtlety of poisoned apples.

Lucien must remind himself that not everyone's skills are the same. What comes to him with such ease does not come to others and vice versa, and he ponders this as he watches the young Nord scramble with the mortar and pestle.

Unskilled fingers fidgeting and scrambling, uncoordinated in their movements as she attempts to juggle the items without spilling the meager amount of work she's accomplished. He grimaces as he notes the state of the dried herbs and fresh flowers that are still discernable and almost fully shaped. She's been at this for over an hour for sure and there is but a smidgen of bruised petals, a smear of wet green along the bottom of the bowl, and a twisted hunk of deep bleeding emerald that was a mountain flower stem.

She's fumbling under his stare, nervous perhaps, and growing increasingly frustrated. The smell of red mountain flowers and dried elves ears burn her nose. She grits her teeth, grinding her molars when the pestle slips out her hand and clackers to the floor.

There is a brief moment of silence and awkward tension as the Speaker stares on and says nothing.

Blue eyes stare at the fallen equipment and in resentment her bare foot kicks out knocking the utensil clear to the other side of the room as she drops the bowl onto the table and walks away defiantly.

The ancient assassin reclines into the wall his fingers pinching at the corners of his eyes.

Yes, he has patience, but for only so long. They don't practice alchemy for the rest of the day.

In fact he takes a break from his mentorship of the new family member and sits in the shabby crumbling room that could have been called a temple in the Sanctuary's younger years.

It has a stained-glass depiction of Sithis, or what has been come to represent Sithis because Lucien knows better than anyone the Dread Lord is as formless as he is glorious. The Night Mother's decaying body stands displayed proudly in the confines of her iron coffin before it and if he looks in just the right angle it almost seems like the Dark Lord is smiling at his Blood Flower, regarding her as some precious gift.

There are pews surrounding the alter, freshly decorated with candles and woven boughs of flowers and snowberry wreaths, and he picks one to his liking, taking his place before his mother and bowing his hooded head to pray.

Lucien doesn't stay long though.

The Keeper returns soon enough and though he is abnormally quiet since the "Speaker's Thrall" is praying and insistent that Lucien will not be in the way as he attends his duties, he leaves the jester to his chores. Respectfully mindful to close the door and offer privacy as jester transforms into dutiful Keeper. All is quiet and he can smell the elaborate draughts or flower oils through the door.

For a moment he is standing in the hall, a spectral hand reaching out to glide over the ancient stone to the stained yellow parchment depicting the long forgotten tenets. Even the ink is old and faded, barely discernable anymore and a nostalgic twinge tingles through his body.

He closes his eyes and can almost hear the black door bidding him welcome again, the smell of band new leather, metal weapons, and fresh hay used to make straw practice dummies when the old have been exhausted. Vicente's cold hand on his shoulder as he guides him through his new home, through training, and eventually through ranks until he has surpassed him to Speaker.

The black door is drowned out by Astrid, the scent of leather, metal, and hay, by Nazir's cooking, the waterfall, and the flaming soot of the forge. Vicente's cold hand in replaced by nothing and thin air that the ghost no longer needs.

His hand falls and so does his heart.

He longs for the Void and disappears into a mist of white magic.

When he is summoned away from Sithis's frozen realm he was not expecting to see him of all people. Festus, the self proclaimed grouchy grandfather of the family, is standing before him holding his scroll of summoning and for a moment Lucien remembers when the man was much younger. "I told her not to leave things lying around willy-nilly. It's no wonder she can never find anything, here."

Lucien takes the scroll, his scroll, and regards it critically. He notices the fire off to the left and suddenly it feels like it weighs 100 pounds in his hand.

Festus seems to notice his sideways gaze, that contemplative look, and the roaring fire with the cauldron bubbling upon it. "Do it if you want. This Sanctuary's full of idiots anyway."

His former summoner walks away, too old and wise now to care what the others think of him. Too committed and respectful of the old ways to fit in with them anymore. Lucien thinks he is a lot like Festus and he turns to head back into the crafting room where he can hear Gabriella saying her goodbyes to Rosalind before heading out on a contact.

He makes it in time to see the dark elf walking away and admiring the deathly red glow emanating from her dagger. Her dark fingers skim the blade lovingly and almost seems like a caress one would give a lover before she sheaths the blade with a smile.

Black eyes flicker to the right and he notices his Listener arranging soul gems atop the enchanting table. Petty gems, greater gems, and two black gems are all clustered and organized with their own. She has rings and necklaces and a rather deadly elven great sword laying over the table as well.

Since when does she ever use great swords?

He walks over and sets the scroll onto the table, directly in the center and certainly on purpose. She is holding a lesser soul gem and ruby necklace, her eyes narrow at the disturbance in her concentration but that aside she says nothing to him as she summons a blue magic into both hands.

The ruby necklace seems unfazed but the soul gem glows bright, absorbing the blue energy like a lich and when she brings it into contact with the silver chain the crystal surface begins to crack. A small fissure opens, running this way and that and for a second it's like looking at a map. There is a small burst of blue magic that swirls about, curling and absorbing its way into the jewelry until the gem is no more. She sets the now enchanted necklace aside, picks up the scroll, and turns to face him.

There is a faint smile on her face and a cheerful brightness in her eyes that tells him she is in good spirits today. He doesn't see any blackness beneath her eyes, she doesn't look exhausted, and most importantly he sees no signs of discomfort or annoyance at his presence. Today may be one of those rarities where they actually get along. "Did Astrid summon you again?"

"No, Festus." Lucien leans into the wall as she begins to finger one of the rings left on the table. This one is silver as well, but where the necklace had a blood red ruby this one has an ocean blue sapphire.

"Oh," she frowns a little and the way she bites at her lips and turns around back towards the table is enough to let him know that they aren't on good terms today, but then they never are. Festus is too cantankerous for her liking.

Lucien stands on the sidelines and watches her work, notices the extravagance and variety of enchantments she chooses for each piece. One glows blue another green, the large sword she has saved for last and by the way she stares at it longer than the other items its clear she's not sure what to do with this one. Eventually he watches the process begin again, watches the red magic conjure into her hands, watches the gem crumble against the blade and sees first hand the final product. "I have never seen you use a great sword."

Rosalind smiles, a wispy musical laugh escapes and she looks at him in the midst of gathering together her concoctions. "These aren't for me. These are for selling," she informs before reaching out and forcing the sapphire ring into his hand, her fingers curling around his for the briefest moment, forcing his fingers closed around the trinket. "Except that one. That one's for you and your alchemy."

Lucien blinks, watches her tuck his scroll into her satchel and jog away, jostling the items together as she heads towards the exit and most likely Falkreath. He holds up his hand, uncurls his fingers, and stares at the ring placed in the center. Its green glow swirls around the silver and the blue gem set in the center. He slips it onto his finger and watches his ethereal glow overtake all color and turn it just as pale and lifeless as himself before walking over to the alchemy table.

He may as well test it out.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So this one is done. Hope you liked it. I just wanted to do something that shows a Dovahkiin that isn't fantastic at every single thing and give a little emotion to a certain ghost in the process, hahaha. Anyways thank you guys for reading and for those that bother to leave comments. Thank you so much! It's you guys that inspire me.


	3. Dreamcatcher

**Title**: Curiosities

**By**: CypressArtemis

**Summary**: Lucien was an assassin from Cyrodiil, his Listener, the fabled Dovahkiin from Skyrim. Surely they must overcome a majority of contrariety to work well together.

* * *

Dreamcatcher

"Khajiit call them Dreamcatchers." He tells her.

Within his palm lays an elaborate decorum of bird feathers, beads of all contours and carvings, attached by colorful threads of string. All is held together by a willow hoop, a circular piece of wood that serves a canvas for a tactically threaded picture.

This one is woven like a spider's web swirling round in a whirlpool. It spirals in a circular motion until it comes to a close in the center. The clever cat people have managed to weave and braid coral pink, white and brown, and tan orange seashells into the little network without disrupting it's rhythm.

Dyed bits of white string hang from the framework, bleeding from white to gold to blue. Ornate beads of smooth triangular shape, plump ovals, and slender cylinders cling to the colorful fibers that splinter off to wave bands of feathers from native birds. Some are wispy tan tipped in white. Others are slick sky blue with black bands. There's puffy gold and a few curled fluffy peach pink that dangle and sway in a colorful dance.

He pinches the short leather band atop the loom between his thumb and forefinger and holds it up, allowing it to entice, suspended before astounded blue irises. Completely captivated by such lively colors, detailed by shores that only exist in other countries, and aviary that cannot thrive in the harsh climates of Skyrim. She wants to touch it and her finger lifts to twirl around the shaggy velvet pink, smiling brightly like a bewitched child on New Life Festival.

"It keeps nightmares at bay." He explains.

In that instant he has her rapt attention and he rises from his seat upon her bed, fishing the tie around the wooden post of the bed frame to hang and twirl above like beautiful hope. He's only just secured it when he feels the pressure about his waist and chest. The warmth of her tight embrace as she takes a moment to rest her head against the lower portion of his ribs.

When she breaks away she beams up at him with tired eyes that rim with a dark tinge not from cosmetics and he knows they both are aware this trinket is nothing more than superstitious remedies to trick children into believing the boogieman doesn't exist. Hircine will always claim her mind, with the help of Vaermina, at his whim but for the time being a gesture is all she needs to curl back beneath the blanket if only for a few more moments.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Can Lucien be sweet when he wants to? I don't know, you tell me if I managed to pull it off.


	4. Cultures

**Title**: Curiosities

**By**: CypressArtemis

**Summary**: Lucien was an assassin from Cyrodiil, his Listener, the fabled Dovahkiin from Skyrim. Surely they must overcome a majority of contrariety to work well together.

* * *

Cultures

Nords were a strange race.

Always running about cloaked in heavy insolating assortments of animal furs, drinking honeyed alcohol with splashes of mint leaves, lumbering into battle with oversize warhammers, faces streaked with various shades of homemade paints and dyes that would serve better purposes on fabrics.

Very strange indeed.

He was an Imperial, for the most part anyway, and most assuredly not in the least bit unusual.

Imperials were charming diplomats, scholarly educated, and quite civilized. Women spun clothes of finest materials, barely a seem was ever flamboyant enough to be noticed. Legions were suited in shinny silver metals with elaborately decorated swords, more for show than use, and helmets adorned their faces over runny smears of berries like their northern cousins.

Ordinary, sophisticated, perfectly normal.

Nords, just plain weird. Barbaric even.

Growing up he would often eavesdrop upon the streets of the Imperial City, listening in on idle gossip that lamented how Skyrim was filled with these barbarian savages. The few that made residence in Cyrodiil had apparently become accustomed to being around his Imperial brethren and like stray dogs they abandoned bad habits to be accepted into this new home.

Didn't make them any more intelligent though.

Lucien studies her face across the way, contemplating the many major differences between their races, most of which he had never truly been aware of until he began following her, as she kneels beside the dead carcass of a white pelted bear, an ebony arrow lodged in its jugular that gushes red stains down the fur and melts the snow into steaming pink. Her gloved hand curls around the shaft and with a wrench the arrow slides free, dislodged the deadly tip drips sinew, bits of tissue, stray hairs, and coagulating blood into frozen ground.

He would have abandoned the dead animal, turned away with a flap of his black robes, an air of indifference radiating off him at such a minor inconvenience and waste of his particular talents. That is what _any _Imperial would have done, but his Nordic accomplice has the nerve to give thanks to Arkay of all Gods! In the presence of a loyal follower of the Death Lord himself, and not only that, but stops in order to hold up the entire process of seeking out a client just to retrieve her arrow.

Not to mention go thorough an incredible long and painstaking process of skinning the pelt free, packing fresh meat, stripping out claws and teeth. By the time all is said and done not only does he have an amazing comprehension of a bears anatomy inside and out, but the sky is growing dark, streaked with purpling gold, the snow is completely maroon red around unrecognizable remains and littered with white bone covered in scraggly bits of meat, long intestines and unusable organs.

_Giant waste of time_, he thinks, teeth gritting with his annoyance as they finally abandon the bear carcass and weave footprints through a frozen forest of trees. He hears the howls, clear and almost ear piercingly loud at the proximity. He snarls like one of the pack predators and rips the celestial dagger from his hip as one leaps at his Listener, plunging the blade bitterly and unforgiving, hilt deep into a fluffy white throat and cursing when it refuses to budge forward anymore. The point is already sharply sticking clean through the neck, a dead wolf hanging lifelessly suspended by knife and hands as the remaining pack circles timidly, unsure now that the alpha is slain.

He throws the body to the ground, snow goes flying in a fine powder upon impact and he kicks the damn thing for good measure. When a yelp sounds he turns to see an arrow protruding from the abdomen of a dirty grey wolf and Rosalind's pale ocean eyes are somehow displeased yet questioning all at once.

She never says anything when she slips her dagger out, the wounded wolf dying slowly in the snow as the pack flees, abandoning the wounded to regroup, and in one fluid motion she ends the pitiful creature of its suffering. The process with the bear begins again and he wheels around, plunging his foot into the dead wolf's ribcage, smiling at a very satisfying crackling. Then he feels frozen pressure at his back, a rounded packed lump of snow shattering against his shoulder and he sees her face. Eyes glaring at him as she shakes her head like a disapproving mother.

Lucien's fingers prickle, twitching around the dagger's hilt at the idea of repeatedly stabbing the dead beast at his feet, leaving puncture after puncture until the thing resembles a pieces of molded crumbling cheese. He looks down at the body, eyes blacker than normal, and he curses its once existence when he hears the first slice down the other animal's stomach. This was going to take a while and Lucien was certainly not in a forgiving mood.

"Lucien," her voice was warning, dissuading him from carving the creature into a useless tangled mass. His dark eyes flickered over meeting hers as she stilled, hunched over the kill like a feeding sabre cat, before pointing over at a base mass of rocks. "Go over there."

He huffs, kicks the snow like an unruly child denied a toy, and slinks away, fingers still ridiculously tight around his ethereal blade.

Rosalind watches his temper tantrum, rolls her eyes, and begins the ritual of plying away fur from meat and bone all the while shaking her head disbelievingly. "Imperials."

Imperials were strange.

Constantly marching about in polished armor that glimmered in the darkness better than any magelight and served about as much protection as a feeding pail. Locking themselves away for days on end, stewing over books and laboring over words, finding just that right poetic one to describe the beauty of the sunrise as they sipped at the bitter tang of fermented grapes. These philosophical "geniuses" didn't have a lick of sense for much else then contemplating obsessively over battle strategies, not even acknowledging the importance of hunting or the possible lifesaving warmth of a fur pelt.

Nords on the other hand were perfectly rational.

Despite their accustomed affinity for cold Nords were smart enough to have a cloak handy and sported armor that could actually withstand the blow of something stronger than a stick. In essence all their clothing was a bit on the dull side, but if you're going to walk around the wilderness you don't particularly want to be flashy. No wonder Imperials had Mountain Lion problems with the way they dress. Hunters were a common profession along with farming, even in the tundra of Skyrim, not like they needed their supplies shipped over from other parts of the world in order to get by. Honey was far sweater than grapes and Bards sang about the beauty of the world for all to hear, passing stories along the generations for those unable to read perfectly written scripts. War and suffering were everyday parts of life so lamenting over them for hours on end wasn't a luxury. Nords don't usually spend two hours in the morning planning their day out, you run into a sabre cat you deal with it and be on your way.

Perfectly sensible.

Imperials…

Rosalind's hands still in their work, anxiously glancing over when she hears the snow crunch and compact, the metallic scrape of a dagger acquiring immediate attention. Lucien hunkers down, squatting near the otherwise neglected wolf on the other side of her. For a long moment she's confused and wondering just what the hell is it he's doing, but he suddenly lifts his hand and brings the ethereal blade down, sinking it hilt deep in the white upper chest before smoothly gliding it downward to flay open the stomach.

Black eyes turn up on her when he feels her staring dumbfounded, moist lips slightly parted as she watches him mimic her movements flawlessly. "Hurry up. I'm not wasting more time than necessary," he comments dryly, still agitated, but continues the process of cleaning out the body and slicing out sections. Her head shakes, forcing her mind to function normally again and starts up where she left off, all the while sneaking peaks at the ghostly assassin across the way.

Exceedingly weird, but she could get used to them.


End file.
